The Great Divide
by psycho pixie
Summary: Rated for a little language. Really, how many more DonnaJosh post-Gaza angst fics can there be? One more, thanks to yours truly. Josh-centric in the hospital with Donna and Colin, mostly introspective.


I don't know who he is when he walks in, but I immediately dislike him. She hadn't mentioned him in her emails, but the look on his face when he sees her suggests that maybe he warranted a mention.  
  
He doesn't do anything wrong except walk right over to her, like he belongs there. Like he deserves to be with her when she's like this. And then his uncomfortable realization, which makes me uncomfortable: Donna didn't mention...  
  
He trails off, leaves the words hanging. But he doesn't have to.  
  
Donna didn't mention me? Why not?  
  
My brain is filling in the reasons why she wouldn't mentions someone who warranted a mention. Maybe she didn't see him as important. Maybe she didn't think I'd see him as important. Or worse, maybe I WOULD think him important.  
  
And why would I?  
  
Maybe he had information on something that intrigued her – or me, as it might be. Maybe he didn't like me. Maybe he liked her.  
  
But that wouldn't be important to me. Or – it would, of course it would.  
  
And maybe she slept with him.  
  
That's the one that keeps sticking out in my brain. Because if it were something business-related, or if he had some profound effect on her Gaza trip that was G-rated, I would have heard. The woman can write up pages upon pages about people I don't care about.  
  
But the longer he stays, the more I interact with him, the more I think I would have cared had Donna mentioned him.  
  
It's just my instinct as her boss that makes me bristle when he takes her hand. I don't know him, and I don't trust him, and she's with ME, dammit, not him. She works for me, anyways. But then, if that's the case, why shouldn't he –  
  
It's the principal of it. I don't like the vibe he gives off. He makes my skin crawl, and my brain has trouble working as he talks to me, talks to Donna. And maybe it's more when he talks to Donna. But that's not the issue here.  
  
He sits very carefully on the edge of her bed as I sit in the chair. He's between me and Donna, and that bothers me. Her eyes are fixed on him like he's the only person in the world, and even though they're talking (more like he's talking) about simple, ordinary things, I keep getting this queasy feeling in my stomach, like maybe I should give them some privacy.  
  
I think about clearing my throat, telling them to get a room, but they have a room, and I'm really the intruder here.  
  
But I'm NOT the intruder. I work in the goddamn White House, I can be wherever the hell I want to be. And I want to be here, with Donna.  
  
Until she's okay, that is.  
  
But even that isn't right, I don't want to stay until I know she'll be all right, and then leave. I want to be here until she can leave WITH me, come back to Washington, get back to work, get back to normal. Make things exactly the way they were before, before Gaza and terrorists and bombs and Donna in the hospital and Toby asking, if there's somewhere else I'd rather be.  
  
And I wanted to yell at him, of –course- there's somewhere else I'd rather be, I SENT her to Gaza. I wanted her to go. I thought it would –  
  
But no, it doesn't matter what I thought, because I WASN'T THINKING.  
  
The way I'm not thinking, can't think with Colin in the room, sitting by Donna as if he belongs there. As if he worried enough, as if he was scared enough, as if he loved her enough to deserve to sit by her.  
  
And. Maybe he does, he saw the explosion. And they obviously have some history, because otherwise he wouldn't have flown to Germany from Gaza.  
  
But she and I have more than they have. Otherwise I wouldn't have flown in from Washington.  
  
Because of evil. Because the evil that she looked at and dealt with back in Washington, the evil we spend our days trying to fight, trying to protect America from.  
  
It touched her.  
  
And NO ONE touches Donna, not the hand of evil, not Colin, no one. Not unless I say so, because she can't right now. I've got every reason, right on the tip of my tongue, to tell Colin to get back on a plane to Gaza and forget he ever met Donna, but I don't. I want to share with him everything that's running top-speed through my mind right now, but I can't, because I know it will sound wrong. I know he'll misinterpret me.  
  
He'll think that I'm jealous, that I'm being petty and forgetting the fact that she could have died. He'll misinterpret how I feel about her, and I won't know how to explain it to him. You can't explain your platonic relationship with a person to someone who doesn't view her platonically.  
  
I do have feelings for Donna, strong ones. Of course I do. How could I not, after all the things that we've gone through? I'm not stupid enough to pretend like I'd be a different person without her, that my life would be poorer without her, that I was so terrified when I heard the news, because I could lose her. I'm not sure what's worse: not knowing her in the first place, or knowing her and have her taken away.  
  
And, that's not romantic. It could be, but it's really not. I try not to think about her like that.  
  
Some times are harder than others, and it takes up my entire brain to keep from thinking of her like that. Sometimes I have to check myself to keep from saying it, just casually asking her if she wondered. Because – we would be good together. We've worked in close quarters for years now; if we weren't compatible then we'd have killed each other, or I'd have fired her a long time ago.  
  
But. I don't think about it. And I never say it.  
  
...If I did, though. And she agreed. We'd certainly be better off than her and her stupid fucking I'm-so-charming-listen-to-me-talk photographer. He probably has to hose down with pheromones every morning to seem that charming anyways. He isn't good for her, I can feel it. I know that he can't make her happy.  
  
I mean, not for very long.  
  
I bite down the urge to scowl as he runs a hand so carefully through her hair, like she might break if he touches her too hard. And I want to snap, yes, idiot, she might break, so how about you stop pawing her?  
  
But then he finally leaves, and we're alone. It's just for a moment, because the nurse comes in soon after he's gone, and I stop talking. But before she comes in, I open my mouth to comment, arms folded across my chest and eyes stubbornly on the foot of her bed.  
  
"So. Charming guy, isn't he?"  
  
Her voice is hoarse and unused, weak from all the meds and the pain, but still so light. "Yeah."  
  
"Met him in Gaza?"  
  
"Bought me a." She wets her lips. "Drink," she explains.  
  
"He's a good-looking guy, huh?"  
  
"Is he?" I can hear the dry amusement in her words.  
  
"I dunno, I was asking."  
  
She's quiet, and at first I think she's asleep, but when I glance up, I see her eyes fixed on me – tired, but wary. And she's not going to say anything else, so I ask her. I know it's probably the wrong thing to ask, and I might piss her off, but I do it anyways.  
  
"Did you sleep with him?" I ask roughly.  
  
Her eyes sadden at the question. "Yeah."  
  
I feel my throat tighten, and the only word that comes out before the nurse walks in is, "Oh." And it sounds a little forced, strained.  
  
I didn't think it would be so hard to hear her say it. Because it shouldn't be. I should be disappointed that she was so thoughtless, but instead it's this burning, painful, real feeling in my chest.  
  
And I shouldn't be feeling it.  
  
The realization hits me suddenly. I shouldn't even be here anymore. Colin is here, and he's the person she needs beside her, not her boss. She sees me, she probably gets stressed about work. She sees him and she can remember happy things. That's also when I'm truly glad that I never asked her before.  
  
About us.  
  
Because it's just an idea that I never really entertained in my head, really. Never gave it the time of day. And it's probably better like that, isn't it?  
  
But she speaks up again, as the nurse is fiddling with the many instruments that she's hooked up to. "I don't love him," she says with a sigh, and her eyes have a question in them: Is that bad? Am I wrong for not loving him? I shouldn't, right?  
  
"And it means more to me than anything that you're still here," Donna adds. Her body slumps after the words, and I can hear the click that activates her morphine drip, and she looks utterly exhausted after just saying that.  
  
I sit there, words failing to fall into my lap, my mouth just barely open, maybe with words on the tip of my tongue. But they don't come out, and maybe that's better. Because what I would have said would have surprised me as much as it would have surprised her.  
  
And I start to think, maybe I should stay.  
  
So I do. 


End file.
